


Hard to Beet

by FroldGapp



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Christmas, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Keithmas Exchange 2018, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 00:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17172470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroldGapp/pseuds/FroldGapp
Summary: Working a monotonous job in order to save for school, Keith's day-to-day is made more interesting with the arrival of a very special customer.





	Hard to Beet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Keithmas Gift Exchange: my prompt was for a Keith/Shiro Grocery Store AU for SpaceBabyKeith (tumblr)
> 
> Hope you like it and merry Keithmas!
> 
> Thanks for the beta @youaremarvelous

LeAnn Rimes. Again.

Keith leaned a carton of tinned peas against his hip and stared up at the offending music speaker, scrunching his nose as the first tinny notes of ‘How Do I Live’ strained out for the hundredth time that morning. On his grocery store stool, he was almost close enough to reach it (and destroy it), but alas, he was a few vital inches shy of the ancient speaker. Slipping his earphones from his pockets, Keith checked the aisle to make sure his manager, a criminally eccentric Kiwi by the name of Coran, was nowhere to be seen. Coast clear, he slipped them in and flicked on the white noise app on his phone.

Keith Kogane did not like music. Especially not country music. And among all the evils of country music, especially not LeAnn Rimes and her hit song from 2000 surprise cult classic,  _Coyote Ugly_.

Eager to get on with his shift, he picked up the tinned peas again and continued packing the shelves. He was just beginning to lose himself in the rhythm of the task when someone tapped him lightly on the arm. He turned on the spot, tearing the earphones free.

‘Coran, I was just – Oh,’ he stopped short, faced with, not Coran, but a very tall, very broad man dressed in jogging pants and the world’s most questionable sweater (a lion with a santa hat and beard, surrounded by what looked like sticks of asparagus with eyes and top hats. Also bells). One arm of the sweater was tied up in a knot just south of his shoulder.

‘Got any beats?’ the man asked.

Keith gawped. ‘I…’ he held up his earphones weakly. ‘Don’t like music.’

The man’s eyes sparked, sun on rainy slate. ‘I mean, that’s fair. But I was talking more about the little red…’ He held up his hands and made a ball shape. ‘Beets.’

‘Oh,’ Keith murmured. The first rush of embarrassment ran up his neck. Why’d all the hot ones always have to bother him? They came in here with their questions and their smiles, talking to him and expecting him to talk back. Making jokes about cereal boxes, toilet cleaners and bean sprouts. There were much more suitable people like Matt and Allura and Lance and Hunk right there who were much better and much more willing. In Pidge alone did he have an ally in dedicatedly earning a few bucks while interacting with society as little as possible.

Climbing down from his stool, Keith gestured for the man to follow. He prowled down the tinned food aisle and past the fresh produce section, turning the corner into a little nook where Coran’s Cornucopia kept its roots, spices and preserves. ‘Here they are. We don’t have ‘em fresh. Only like this.’ He picked up the vacuum sealed pack of beets and handed them to the man who accepted them with a smile.

‘Cute,’ he said.

Keith swallowed the lining of his throat, squawking a ‘Huh?!’ so loud a lady bent over the pizza freezer jumped and banged his head on the glass.

‘Thanks!’ said the man, with a squawk of his own. ‘I said “thanks,” which is something you say when someone gives you something which is beets which you have now given me into my hands so thanks you.’ He blushed furiously. ‘Thank you.’

Keith narrowed his eyes. The man audibly swallowed.

‘Well, guess I’ll be going.’ He held the beets aloft.

‘Uh-huh.’

The man turned to leave. Keith watched him with folded arms. He’d only made it a few steps when he turned back, sweater-bells tinkling. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if you said “beet it”?’ he asked. He held up the according produce to drive home his point.

Keith folded his arms. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Takashi Shirogane. But Shiro is good.’ He pointed at Keith’s badge. ‘Guess I don’t have to ask for yours.’

‘Beat it, Shiro,’ said Keith.

Shiro smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘See you around, Keith.’

Watching Shiro retreat down the aisle, Keith replaced his earphones, but his thumb slid to the volume on his phone, flicking the white noise off. Back at tinned food aisle, he gently picked up the tins of peas again, listening to the sound of Takashi ‘Shiro’ Shirogane chatting amicably to Matt at the till. His heart gave a little kick in his chest as both men burst into laughter.

‘Stupid sweater,’ he mumbled, shoving the next tin away with a little more force than necessary.

OoO

‘Now staff, after me!’ Coran stood on his personalised gilded fruit crate at the front of the store, moustache waxed and shoes shined as perfectly as ever, as he led his daily motivational chant. ‘A happy helping helper hones a healthy home from home!’

‘A happy helping helper hones a healthy home from home!’ the members of the morning shift repeated with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Lance, hungover and tender, looked like he was about to puke, while Hunk delivered the words with gusto, waving his fingers like a conductor. Keith muttered along in his way, drawing encouraging glares (if such things were possible) from Coran and rousing back slaps from Hunk.

‘We aim to please, come bread or cheese, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!’

Again, the staff recounted the mantra. They leaned into a messy scrum, though kept a little more distance than usual given the toxicity of Lance’s boozy breath, before splitting up to start their daily duties. Keith was on the till today; a job he hated, because being at the cash register meant enforced chatter and a closed booth. He’d have tried to bully Lance into taking his place, but it didn’t feel right to put the customers at risk of being spewed on. Keith had just slipped into his little booth and onto his stool when the door tinkled.

It was him. Sweaterman. Shiro. He was dressed in a cardigan patterned in Christmas lights and was wearing an honest-to-God santa hat. He looked like a superhero who picked a fight with a bag of wool. It had been over a week since their first meeting, and while Keith managed to keep his head down and work with the same quiet commitment he always did, there were always those niggling memories of twinkling grey eyes and strong arms barely contained by lurid purple wool every time the bells above the door rang.

They locked eyes at once. ‘Hey Keith,’ Shiro said.

Keith raised a hand and waved distractedly. So distractedly, in fact, that he forgot he was holding an open coin bag. Pennies spilled free in a deafening shower.

Keith closed his eyes and sucked a breath in through his nose. He could hear Shiro’s soft chuckling. ‘Go buy your beets or whatever,’ he said, face burning.

‘You got it,’ Shiro replied, still laughing.

OoO

It was a week before Christmas when Keith saw Shiro next. Once again, he was on the till. With only an hour left on his shift, he had started toeing his kit bag that lay under his stool, eager to finish up and go on his evening run. It had been snowing for a few days now and so the track would be quiet, the run deliciously challenging. His almost daily workout was his little piece of sanity between the mundanity of Coran’s Cornucopia and that of his studies. He didn’t even realise Shiro had entered the store until a gloved hand lay a bouquet of flowers across the conveyor belt.

‘We’ve got nicer ones out back,’ Keith began. ‘Those lilies have seen better days.’

’These will do fine,’ said that same chalky voice Keith had grown to look forward to in the short couple of weeks since Shiro had first walked in.

‘Oh,’ Keith said. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey,’ replied Shiro, quiet and tired. He wasn’t wearing his usual tacky sweater, but instead a thick black Crombie coat, collar dotted with enamel military pins. His eyes were glassy, his broad shoulders heavy and stooped.

‘Are you okay?’ Keith asked, tugging a sheet of paper free from under the counter and gently wrapping up the flowers. For a long moment, the only sound was the crinkling of paper as Keith worked.

Shiro sniffed. ‘How much do I owe you?’

Taken aback by Shiro’s sullen tone, Keith held the flowers out and answered with a shaky, ‘On the house.’

‘Appreciate it. Thanks,’ Shiro said, and left the shop without a backwards glance.

Keith watched Shiro’s broad figure walk across the parking lot until he was obscured by the blowing snow and finally out of sight.

‘Hey Coran!’ he called, eyes still fixed on the empty parking lot beyond the frosted door. The red-haired man dipped his head out of his office. ‘Can I clock off early?’

‘Well, I –‘

‘Thanks!’ Keith said, ignoring Coran’s shocked face and even more shocked objections. He quickly shut down his cash register, tore his key card free, and gathered up his running gear. On the way to the staff lockers, he grabbed his flask and shoved it under the coffee machine, filling it up with hot cocoa and squirting in some cream for good measure. Five minutes later, he was pounding down the streets of Old Altea, powdered snow flying up behind him. Careful not to slip, he kept glancing down at the large footprints in front of him, following them in the wake of their owner.

He caught up to Shiro after only a few minutes. Under the orange glow of a street lamp, Shiro continued his slow tread forward. Keith sped up, calling out for Shiro, who turned with the flowers clutched to his chest. With the snow roiling in thick flurries around his feet, and smart white scarf blowing in the wind, Shiro looked like a vision of timeless nobility: stoic, calm, patient and kind.

‘Keith?’ he asked, shielding his eyes against the snow.

Keith skid to a stop in front of him. In his winter running tights and baggy soccer shorts, Keith couldn’t have looked more different from Shiro who was all class in leather glove and smart woollen cap.

‘I…’ Keith panted. ‘You… your… seemed… cocoa… brought.’ He thrust the flask into the crook of Shiro’s elbow, almost knocking the flowers out in the process.

Shiro glanced down at the flask and back up at Keith. ‘I don’t understand.’

Breath puffed in little clouds as Keith spoke, still winded from his sprint. ‘You looked sad. And you weren’t wearing your dumb sweater. I figured something was up.’ He tossed a finger at the flask. ‘Cocoa. My pop used to give to me if I was feeling blue.’

A timorous smile worked its way onto Shiro’s lips. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say “blue” in real life before.’

‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who shops exclusively for beets.’

Shiro flushed at that, thick eyelashes blinking away snow. ‘Well, the beets might have been something of a ruse.’

Keith’s eyes shrank to cat-like slits. ‘A ruse for what?’

Shirt cleared his throat and glanced back in the direction he was headed. ‘Wanna walk with me?’

Keith shrugged. ‘Sure, where are we going’ he asked, taking the flowers from Shiro so he could tuck into his cocoa.

Shiro popped open the lid with his thumb and took a long sip. ‘This is… very rich.’

’S’got cream.’ Keith said, hunching in on himself against the cold. ‘Good for a night like this.’ He looked up at Shiro who was diving in for his second sip. ‘Where are we going?’

Shiro pressed his lips together a moment before answering. ‘The hospital,’ he said, smiling but looking at Keith with sad, tired eyes.

OoO

On their walk, Keith discovered a lot of things about Takashi Shirogane who, after a slow start, became quite content to chatter with Keith as they walked down the empty streets of Old Altea towards the hospital.

He loved painting watercolours and donated yearly to a donkey sanctuary. He was a horrible cook and an even worse dancer. He’d served as a pilot in the air force, but was discharged after losing an arm. He’d been thrilled to learn that Keith was working at Coran’s Cornucopia to fund his way to aeronautical school, and offered Keith all his old books.

Shiro was making a final visit to the hospital to bid farewell to a former flight instructor of his. The man had passed away peacefully that afternoon as Shiro sat by his bedside, reading from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Wind, Sand, and Stars. “The Captain”, as Shiro called him, was by all accounts a terrifying but generous man who also happened to snatch Shiro up from an orphanage a few towns over after hearing of his aptitude for physics and remarkable athleticism. When Keith shared that he too was an orphan, Shiro looked at him and burst out laughing; not a reaction Keith had ever encountered before to that particular piece of news.

‘Do you believe in fate, Keith?’ he asked.

‘Nope,’ Keith answered.

They stopped at the gates of the hospital, shivering together under the faded sign. ‘You seem very certain.’

‘I guess.’

Shiro rocked back on his heels, drinking Keith in with eyes that turned to burning coal in the dark. Keith shuffled under the scrutiny of those sharp eyes until at last Shiro sighed regretfully. ‘I should head inside.’

‘Sure.’

‘Sure.’ Shiro kicked at a little mound of snow. ‘I’d love to talk more. See you more, Keith. If you don’t mind.’

‘I… yeah,’ Keith replied, aware suddenly that his cheeks hurt from smiling. ‘So long as you lay off the bad jokes.’

Shiro threw his head back and issued a single “Ha!” of laughter. When he recovered, he nudged Keith with his shoe. ‘Not possible.’

Keith groaned. ‘Hey, what’d you need all those beets for anyway?’ he asked, taking back the empty flask and passing the flowers to Shiro.

Sheepish, Shiro rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I saw you with your earphones in and wanted to talk to you. That terrible joke was the only thing I could think of. It was that or kicking the stool from under you and rescuing you but…’ He held up the empty sleeve of his coat.

‘You… were you trying to woo me with dad jokes?’ Keith asked.

Shiro shrugged, helpless.

Keith took a small step backwards, grinning what he was sure was the most idiotic grin he’d ever grinned in his life. ‘Maybe I’ll see you in the store?’

‘Naturally,’ Shiro said. He awkwardly struggled through his coat pocket and withdrew a card, handing it to Keith who received it with both hands, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

‘A business card?’ He tutted, turning it over in his hands. ‘Are you a time traveller or?’

‘My number. In case you want to… you know.’

Keith brought it to his brow and away again in a mock salute. ‘I’ll make sure that tree didn’t die for nothing, Shiro.’ He threw his chin to the gate. ‘Get inside.’

Shiro laughed and ambled towards the gate as ordered. ‘See you soon, Keith,’ he called back, slipping inside and leaving Keith alone, smiling, in the fall of Christmas snow.


End file.
